Matters of Doubt (11 page)

I took her through several more questions, including who the hell X-Man might be, but nothing else important surfaced. I thanked her and wrote my cell number on a card for her in case something else came to mind. I sat in my car outside the Portland
Zenith
building thinking about what Cynthia Duncan had just told me. Nicole Baxter had a lover who was apparently never identified, and she may have been writing an exposé about Larry Vincent.

The pot wasn't boiling yet, but I could see some steam.

Chapter Seventeen

The only discount electronics shop I knew of in Portland was over in Southeast, on Eighty-Second, a tough area of Portland known as Felony Flats. The electronics shop was located between the headquarters of the Oregon Cannabis Foundation and Duke's Gun Shop, which claimed to be “Portland's Last Real Gun Store.” I hated to rush into a big decision like buying a new computer, but didn't feel I had much choice. An hour later I had a new laptop with a four gigabyte RAM and a backup hard drive that I vowed to use religiously. I also bought a prepaid cell phone for Picasso in the hopes of stimulating better communications. As I wrote the check, I remembered that I still hadn't talked to him about getting paid. That discussion, it seemed, kept being overtaken by events.

I locked my new computer in the trunk of my car and crossed the street to a pharmacy, where I bought a green ball cap with
Oregon
written in yellow script across the front. I wouldn't call it a disguise, but I hoped that with the cap, my dark glasses, and my fleece zipped and collared-up, I might go unrecognized if I kept to the fringe of Conyers' funeral. I glanced at my watch. If I hurried, I could get there before the service ended.

I managed to score a parking space a block and a half down from the Old Church, a nineteenth century Gothic gem that a group of citizens had rescued from the wrecking ball in the sixties. The buttressed belfry tower still jutted skyward emphatically, but it was missing a cross—a testament to the building's secular use, I assumed. It was 11:25, about time for the building to disgorge Conyers' mourners.

I suddenly felt apprehensive. What if someone recognized me, like that reporter Picasso kicked, or worse, what if Scott and Jones showed up? And what the hell did I expect to learn anyway? I had no answer except that I knew funerals were a powerful draw, and I was curious to see who would show up.

I put on the cap and glasses and joined a small group of onlookers who'd gathered next to a group of TV reporters and their technicians. People I didn't recognize trickled out first, and it wasn't until several minutes later that Conyers' stepbrother, Seth Foster, emerged. He was younger than I judged from the news photo, broad through the chest with the florid complexion of someone with a taste for alcohol. His face was drawn up in a tight, controlled expression, and I thought his eyes betrayed genuine sadness. Jessica Armandy was next to him, dry eyed and grim-faced, her hand resting on his arm.

The cameras were rolling, but out of respect none of the reporters approached Foster. Then Larry Vincent emerged, and I heard a murmur from the onlookers. He went straight to a reporter he seemed to know, said something I couldn't hear, and then up popped her microphone. She said, “Mr. Vincent, would you like to comment on Mitchell Conyers' memorial service?”

“Yes, I would, Casey. It was a beautiful service to commemorate the tragic loss of an outstanding citizen of Portland. Mitch Conyers will be sorely missed. This is a wakeup call, a stark reminder of what the city's permissive policies toward the homeless can result in. I hope and pray the police bureau will bring Mitch Conyers' killer to justice and do it soon. And I call on the mayor and the city council to crack down on these unwanted and potentially dangerous people. Thank you.”

Vincent stepped away, a self-satisfied look staining his face. The woman behind him looked familiar, but I couldn't place her. She wore a tight black dress that accentuated an eye-popping body and thick mane of honey blond hair. Most of her eye makeup was on her cheeks, which were red like her nose. She was the only one I'd seen crying in the whole crowd. Then it came to me—she was one of the women sitting next to Jessica Armandy the night I met her. I fell in step with her and offered my handkerchief. “I'm sorry for your loss. Mitch must have been a good friend.”

She waved off my handkerchief and shot me a sideways look. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Cal Claxton. I'm trying to figure out who killed your friend.”

She looked at me again. “You don't look like a cop.”

I laughed. “Thanks, I'm not. I'm an attorney. I was, uh, wondering if I could talk to you about Mitch Conyers.”

She stopped and faced me. She was tall with the skin and hair of vibrant youth. Her big, doe eyes were as green as the sea, and her mouth wide with lips that were naturally round and full. She reached up and took my cap off, the stones in her tennis bracelet glittering with authenticity. “You're the guy at the bar the other night who was talking to Jessica. You represent that snake kid, right?”

I smiled hesitantly, half expecting to get shut down. “Uh, yeah. I represent Danny Baxter.”

She nodded, then sniffed, and I offered my handkerchief again. She took it this time, dabbed her eyes and looking down on it, said, “Shit. There goes the makeup.” Then she looked up, studying me for a few moments. “I'm not going to the cemetery. What I could use is a stiff drink. My name's Bambi.”

“I could use a drink, too.” I pointed up the street. “My car's on the next block.” As we started walking, I glanced back toward the church and saw the imposing figure of Jessica's driver, Semyon, getting into her Lexus. I was pretty sure he hadn't seen us, but I couldn't say the same for the passengers behind the heavily tinted windows of the sleek, black car.

We drove over to a tiny watering hole Bambi knew that was located in a turn of the century flatiron building across from Powell's Books. A clutch of homeless kids were lounging in the sun near where we parked and one—a pudgy girl with bad teeth—asked if we could spare some change. I hadn't bought any of the meal vouchers Anna had suggested yet, so I reached into my pocket so as not to look cheap in front of Bambi. Before I got my hand out, Bambi fished a five dollar bill out of a small purse she was carrying and placed it in the girl's outstretched hand. “Damn spangers,” she muttered as we walked away.

“
Spangers
?” I asked. I hadn't heard the term.

She looked at me in disbelief. “Spare change artists. You'd be surprised how much money they can make.”

“Why do you give her money then?”

She shrugged. “I usually don't. It was the girl. I felt sorry for her.”

When we were seated at the back of the bar, I asked her about her name. She laughed. “My real name's Stephanie, but Jessica wanted me to be called Bambi. She said older clients would really dig it. I used to hate the name, but I got used to it.”

Jessica was probably right about the name, although given Bambi's physical attributes “Ralph” would have worked just as well. As we waited for our drinks, I said, “How did you meet Jessica?”

She had repaired her makeup in the restroom, and her eyes seemed less innocent now. “Actually, she discovered me.”

“How so?”

A smile brightened her face. “I was hanging out one day in Pioneer Square, seven years ago, I guess. I was seventeen, living on the street. Got kicked out of my house in Boise. Anyway, Jessica walks up to me, introduces herself and asks if I want a job.”

“What kind of job?”

She shot me a look, like I was some sort of idiot. “Escorting, what-a-ya think? She told me I had real potential.”

Potential must mean being beautiful and looking five years younger than your age, I thought to myself. “Was Mitch Conyers one of your clients?”

Our drinks had arrived. She took a pull on her whiskey sour as her face clouded over and her eyes began to tear again. “Yeah, but it was more than that. I was his special girl. He always told me that.” She raised her wrist to show me the bracelet. “He gave me this.”

“It's lovely.”

She dabbed her eyes carefully with a napkin and laughed with a bitterness that saddened me. “He told me he was going to get me out of the life, you know. Now he's dead.”

I nodded in a show of understanding. “It must still be possible to get out, Bambi.”

“Yeah, well, it would be nice, but it's not as easy as you think. I make a good living, you know. I have bills to pay, too.”

I had a feeling there were more formidable barriers to her leaving but set them aside for the time being. “Do you have any idea who killed Mitch?”

She lowered her napkin and met my eyes. There was a steely resolve in her face I hadn't seen before. “It wasn't your snake boy, that's for sure.”

I set my beer down. “Why do you say that?”

“Right after they found that woman's bones, Mitch started acting kind of nervous. Even had trouble getting it up one night.” She allowed another smile, wistful this time. “That wasn't like him at all. I asked him what the problem was, you know? He didn't want to talk at first, but after a couple of drinks, he tells me he's worried.”

“About what?” I coaxed.

“I'm not sure, exactly. But it wasn't your boy. He wasn't scared of some homeless kid. He said he'd been squeezing someone and maybe they'd had enough.”

“
Squeezing
someone?”

“You know, he was being paid to keep quiet about something. Blackmail.”

“Did he say who he was blackmailing?”

“No. Anyway, then he says, ‘Bambi, I'm going to give you an envelope. If anything happens to me, give it to the cops.' You know, like right out of the movies.”

“Do you have the envelope?”

She shook her head. “No, he never gave me anything. He got killed two days later.”

I dropped my head and sighed. “Have you told the cops about this?” I asked the question, but I already knew the answer.

“I don't talk to cops. Jessica would kill me.”

“Would you talk to them if I came with you?”

She shook her head emphatically. “
No way
. And if you tell the cops, I'll lie,” she said defiantly.

“Then why are you telling me this?”

She rattled the cubes in her drink. “Looks to me like you're the only one trying to find Mitch's real killer. Maybe this'll help. Besides, I feel sorry for that homeless kid. I've been there. I know what it's like.”

I nursed my beer and bought her a second whiskey sour, which made her a little tipsy. She told me Seth Foster's mother was Mitch Conyers' dad's second wife, and that Foster had been active in Conyers' restaurant business, but she didn't know any details. She did add, however, that Foster had a real thing about Jessica Armandy, although she apparently didn't feel the same way about him. When I asked whether she knew Hugo Weiman, the owner of the Deschutes property, she told me his name sounded vaguely familiar, but didn't know anything about him.

After I ran out of questions, I drove her back to her car. As she was getting out, I handed her a card and said, “If you think of anything else, give me a call. And, if you decide to change jobs, let me know. Maybe I can help.”

When I got back to the clinic, I noticed a plastic tarp was hanging from the eaves of the building, partially covering Picasso's mural. I walked over to the side of the building for a closer look. The offending words were already painted over, and I could see where Picasso had started resketching.

As I started into the clinic a tall man in a blazer crossed the street and headed me off. An obese man with a full beard waddled like a duck behind him. The beard had a camera.

The blazer said, “Mr. Claxton, I'm Arnie Simms from
The Oregonian
. I understand you're representing Daniel Baxter. Is that right?”

“Not for the murder of Mitchell Conyers, I'm not. Mr. Baxter hasn't been charged with anything.” It had clouded over. The camera flashed twice.

“That's true. But I just came from a press briefing at the Portland Police Bureau. They announced that Mr. Baxter is now considered a person of interest in the murder of Conyers. Would you care to comment on that?”

The camera flashed again. I felt the blood rise in my neck. The term “person of interest” pissed me off. “Well, I'm not sure what that term really means. Is this an attempt to placate certain interests in this city who seem bent on rushing to judgment? The fact is, Daniel Baxter hasn't been charged with anything, so he should be considered a person of innocence. I'd advise the police to broaden their search. There's a vicious killer out there, and it's not Danny Baxter.” At that point, I caught myself. “That's all I have to say.”

I ducked into the clinic, which was jammed with people. Anna was with a patient, and I found Archie in her office snoozing with his nose between his paws. He raised his hind quarters and stretched luxuriously before standing and wagging his stump of a tail.

We found Picasso in the spare office across from the storage room. He was sitting at a table next to Caitlin, an open book between them. He was saying, “…in algebra, whatever you do on one side of the equation, you have to do on the other side.” Caitlin was chewing on her pencil, a pad of lined paper in front of her covered with equations. They looked up and Picasso said, “Hey Cal, this is Caitlin. I'm helping her study. She's going to the alternative high school over on Twelfth Street.”

Caitlin averted her eyes and smiled shyly, an act that bracketed her mouth with a pair of perfect parentheses. Her chestnut brown hair looked freshly washed and gleamed in the overhead lights. We chatted for a few minutes about the joys of algebra, and then I looked at Picasso. “Arch and I are heading back to Dundee tonight. After you finish up here, can you swing by Caffeine Central? We need to talk.” I turned to leave and added, “Great job on the mural. What's the tarp for?”

“Privacy. Me and some of my friends have decided to take turns sleeping out there to keep an eye on things. Plenty of room for a sleeping bag next to the building.”

My thoughts went straight to what would happen if the vandals came back, but I let it slide.

I was packed up when Picasso arrived two hours later. He was wearing a faded, long-sleeve cotton turtle neck and a pair of jeans that had more holes than cloth. I stepped back and eyed him. “You're not so scary looking with your tats covered.”